idiotprufs

Read by four out five drunken monkeys–written by the fifth.

Archive for the tag “idiocy”

It’s a Tradition: Memorial Day Post

 

american_legion_logo1

It’s a tradition. This is the third year I’m posting this on Memorial Day weekend for two specific reasons:

  1. I like it.
  2. Unapologetic laziness.

Years ago I worked at an American Legion post. I met a lot of people during my time there. Some of them were ordinary people, some were interesting, some were bizarre and some were bizarrely interesting.

One of the more interesting people was Jack.

Jack constantly spoke in non sequiturs. At first I thought that he was simply hard of hearing, but I began to realize there was a thread of continuity in the things he was saying. His conversations would go off in seemingly weird and irrelevant tangents, but they generally made it back to their original points.

I’ve often wished that I had written some of them down, unfortunately I’m a moron.

Here are a few of my favorites that haven’t been lost to my faulty memory:

Jack: I remember when I paid only ten dollars a week for rent.

Other patron: We don’t live in the fifties anymore Jack.

Jack: What! (slamming his fist against the bar in indignation) I haven’t ridden a bicycle in years.

Other patron: What?

Jack: I’d rather pay for my truck insurance than ride a bicycle.

Other patron: Again, what?

Jack: I can barely afford to pay my for rent and my truck insurance.

Or this one:

Me: Do you want another beer Jack?

Jack: (giving me a dismissive wave): I don’t know anyone named Dan.

Me: Firstly, I asked you if wanted another beer. Secondly, what about Dan sitting there right next to you?

Jack: (looking at Dan suspiciously) His last name isn’t White.

Me: So?

Jack: Then why would someone named Dan White want to buy me a beer?

Me: Obviously he wouldn’t, I can’t believe I’ve behaved so foolishly.

But this was my favorite:

Me: How are you doing today Jack?

Jack: You’re nuts!

Me: I hesitate to ask, but apart from the obvious, why do say that?

Jack: My wife was never an Eskimo.

Yeah, I still have no idea.

Eskimo

Probably not Jack’s wife.

But of all the interesting people I met, John was the most interesting.

John had a lot of stories to tell and a keen willingness to tell them, under one condition: you had to keep a cold rum and coke in front of him. He needed the proper “lubrication” to keep the vocal chords going.

John was man in his late eighties but still very spry. He had a weird sense of humor, which was probably a good thing because his wife seemed to have none at all. She was a surly woman who I never saw smile; John was never without one.

John was a rifle bearer for the Honor Guard. One day after performing their duties, the members of the Honor Guard were returning to the post to have a few drinks together, as was their custom.

John walked calmly up to bar in full dress uniform, carrying his rifle, and wearing his eye-patch (John had to occasionally wear an eye-patch because of condition he had. He claimed he wore so he didn’t see double after he’s had a few too many) and stood there with a slight impish grin on his face.

He looked like pirate.

He then quickly pulled the rifle to his shoulder and discharged it toward the back of the bar.

The crack of the rifle echoed through the hall. If you’ve never heard a rifle discharged in a building, it’s loud. Beer flew into air, drinks were spilled, people scattered, some hit the floor. Even though I knew it was only a blank, it was still jarring to have a weapon discharged in your general direction.

A cloud of smoke hung in air the along with the pungent smell of spent gun powder. For a moment after the echo of the rifle had disappeared there was total silence. Then there chaos. Some people were laughing; some people were not. Some people were cursing, especially John’s wife, who unleashed a stream of foul language that to this day, I am certain has never been matched.

Once I made sure I still a whole person, I laughed, maybe as hard as I ever had in my life.

He later told me he thought it would be funny.

“When isn’t heart failure funny,” I told him.

John was reprimanded by the post, but that didn’t bother him. In fact, I’m not sure I ever saw anything bother him.

John was there that day on June 6th 1944. It’s estimated that 2,500 allied soldiers lost their lives on D-Day… but John didn’t. He had to hang around long enough to nearly scare me to death.

So this Memorial Day weekend, I’m dedicating this blog post to Jack, John and every other veteran who is no longer with us.

Spring 2015: More Mooning Garden Gnomes.

 

idiotprufs, prickly weed

The prickly weed; a very under appreciated weed.

The signs of spring are all around you:

  • The temperature has warmed.
  • The sound of birds chirping in the morning has replaced the sound of snow blowers and the guy across the street complaining bitterly as he scrapes the ice from his car.
  • And the sound of his cursing as another ice-scraper breaks off in his hand and he yells, “that’s it, I’m leaving this God forsaken weather and I’m going to Texas,” as shakes his fist at the sky.
  • Soon to replaced by his cursing as he scrapes bird crap from his windshield as he shakes his fist at the sky.
  • The final remnants of where Gerald the neighbor kid, wrote insults to you in the snow with his pee, are finally melting away. That kid has a vivid imagination and a huge bladder.
  • Your neighbor will begin work on his annual garden. In the coming months, he will regale you with baskets of fresh vegetables. He will explain to you that his garden has produced so overwhelmingly, that his own family couldn’t possibly consume all the bounty themselves. Smug Jerk.
  • Your other neighbor has once again placed a mooning garden gnome, Willard #6, facing your kitchen window.

A quick recap of the history of the Willards

  • Willard met an untimely demise at the hands of a maniac with a shovel.
  • Willard #2 was also smashed with a shovel.
  • Willard #3 was backed over by a car and smashed with a shovel.
  • Willard #4 was hit with a brick, peed on, and smashed with a shovel.
  • Upon swearing to your neighbor and the local authorities, that you had nothing to do with the dispatching of the previous Willards, and under no circumstance would you attack an innocent garden gnome with a shovel, Willard #5 took his proper place facing your kitchen window.
  • Willard #5 was smashed with a hammer.
  • Willard #6 now stands proudly baring his buttocks toward your kitchen window. He is protected by flood lights and a security camera…for now.

You begin to make preparations for Spring yourself:

  • You drain and fill in the moat you dug the previous Spring. Gerald the neighbor kid, took swimming lessons over the Winter, and the cold weather killed all the piranha anyway.
  • You plant a vegetable garden of your own, regardless of the fact that your touch seems to destroy life.
  • You take down the sign that some smart aleck placed by your garden that read: Potter’s Field.
  • The local nursery places a picture of you on the their wall labeled: The Grim Reaper.
  • Gerald the neighbor kid mockingly asks you what kind of plants you plan to kill this year.
  • You look into the purchase of an electrified fence.
  • Your gardening neighbor assures you he’ll have plenty of extra vegetables to give you, after your garden has shriveled up and blown away like blades of grass in the Sahara Desert. “I’ll give you some tomatoes, zucchini, squash, maybe even a few cukes,” he tells you.
  • You try to think of a clever response, but you’re not clever.
  • “You’re a cuke,” you finally yell, long after your neighbor has left.
  • You focus on growing the only things that seem to flourish under your care: weeds.
  • Your plot of weeds thrives, especially the prickly weeds.
  • Your home is raided by the DEA after they receive an anonymous tip about you “growing weed.” They find nothing illegal, but your precious weeds are trampled.
  • You buy a rifle. You know who the anonymous tipster was, and it’s time for Willard #6 to pay.

Note: oddly, Sea-Monkeys also do well under your care.

 

idiotprufs mooning gnome

This is practically a bullseye.

The Great Broccoli Fiasco

broccoliApart from a few facts that may be the products of my faulty memory, this story is completely true.

It came from the kitchen, and it was horrendous. It stung your nostrils, and it turned your stomach.

Note: my roommate’s name in this story was Al, but for the sake of brevity and ease, I will be referring to him simply as: Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man.

Me: what is that horrendous smell?

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: it’s probably me.

Me: it is a sickening and repulsive stench, but it’s a different kind of sickening and repulsive stench.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: I think it’s coming from the refrigerator.

Me: but there’s nothing in the refrigerator apart from a bottle of ketchup, some old pizza, and mysterious yellow stain that seems to move about on its own.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: the stain scares me; it’s shaped like a spider.

Me: (opening the refrigerator door, only to be staggered by the smell) holy crap, it is coming from the refrigerator.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: it must be the anchovies on that left over pizza; they taste like the ass-end of a rhinoceros.

Me: well, I’ll have to defer to your expertise in ass related matters.

Note: anchovies are lumps of decaying fish, infused with all of the salt in the world–they’re delicious.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: I know how to get rid of it.

He grabbed the pizza box from the fridge and hurled it onto the roof below the kitchen window of our apartment.

Me: brilliant.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: of course it’s brilliant; I’m the one who did it.

Me: your brilliance is only matched by your humility.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: it’s my humility that makes me great.

Me: you are a walking oxymoron.

So the problem was solved…or was it?

Not only did the odor not dissipate, it grew in strength.

The next day:

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: why hasn’t the smell gone away?

Me: it wasn’t the anchovies.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: anchovies taste like the ass-end of a rhinoceros.

Me: we have to do something; air fresheners won’t cover it up.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: air fresheners won’t cover up the ass-end of rhinoceros?

Me: probably not, but I was referring specifically to the smell in the kitchen.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: well we’ve checked everywhere.

Me: is there anything in the vegetable crisper?

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: the what?

Me: the drawer where you keep the vegetables.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: the what now?

Me: I’ll show you.

I slid open the vegetable crisper to reveal a bowl of expired broccoli and possibly the most rancid smell that has ever stimulated my olfactory senses.

Me: how can vegetables possibly smell that bad?

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: I didn’t even know that drawer was there.

Me: we have to get rid of them.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: I have an idea.

So Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man grabbed the bowl of tainted broccoli and flushed it down the toilet.

The problem was solved…or was it.

It seems pouring a bowl full of broccoli down a toilet is the equivalent of pouring a bucket full of concrete down a toilet; it was a mess. There was literally a waterfall of human waste pouring down the kitchen wall of the downstairs neighbor.

She was unhappy…loudly.

A few days later we had a typical western New York snowstorm which dropped about four feet of snow on us.

The landlord came to shovel the snow from the roof outside our kitchen window. He struggled with something that was solidified to the roof. It turned out to a pizza with anchovies.

He was unhappy…loudly.

Note: if you were unaware: anchovies smell like the ass-end of a rhinoceros.

rhino butt

A Permanent Cure For Athlete’s Foot (With a Few Slight Side Effects)

One test subject; look how freaking happy he is.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

I’ve finally done it.

I’ve developed a permanent and foolproof cure for athlete’s foot.

It’s brilliant in its concept, and elegant in its simplicity.

For the small cost of just $99.99, (with an unreasonably exorbitant shipping and handling cost, which I will inform of after you’ve made the purchase) I will send you my product.

The kit includes the following items:

  • A high quality hacksaw.
  • A tourniquet guaranteed to stop spurting blood.
  • A bottle of aspirin.
  • A finely crafted peg leg.

Note: For a small additional cost, I will send you the jumbo sized bottle of aspirin, you’re probably going to need it. If you should happen to have any morphine lying around the house, that would be good too.

Imagine all the ways that using my product can make your life better:

  • You’ll never again have to deal with the burning scourge of athlete’s foot.
  • You’ll never again slip on the ice and sprain your ankle. You might slip on the ice and break your neck, but you won’t sprain your ankle.
  • You’ll never again stub your toe on a piece of furniture as you stumble toward the bathroom in the middle of the night.
  • You’ll never again spend the night on the couch after yelling at your spouse/girlfriend/lodger for moving a piece of furniture.
  • You can’t “ruin” Thanksgiving by dropping a frozen turkey on your aunt’s foot (if she’s used my product).

Note: your aunt’s presence has already ruined Thanksgiving; she’s an ogre.

  • You can dress up as a pirate on Halloween.
  • Mahogany peg legs are super classy.

There are a few slight drawbacks in the use of my product; all of which, I will inform you of in tiny unreadable print that scrolls across the bottom of screen at light speed.

Some of these slight problems are:

  • Massive loss of blood can make you woozy.
  • Carpenter ants are tenacious.
  • So are termites.
  • Dry rot.
  • Anal sores. (I have no idea why this happens-it just does.)
  • Beavers might steal your leg and incorporate it in the construction of a dam. (It happens more than you would think.)
  • Woodpeckers.
  • Mole holes in the backyard become especially hazardous.
  • You can’t drop a frozen turkey on your aunt’s foot. Secretly, you really did enjoy that; she’s an ogre.
  • It cuts the exorbitant cost of sock purchases in half.
  • Christian Bale will come to your home and hurl insults at you; he’s kind of a dick.
  • Your golf game may suffer a bit. And groundskeepers tend to get really pissy about the imprints that a peg leg leaves on the putting green.
  • Splinters.
  • The snide, hey Yellowbeard where’s your parrot, remarks from your coworkers.
  • Truthfully: I have very little concern for the efficacy of this product or your actual well-being.

All I need now is approval from the FDA. Unfortunately this has been far more difficult than I had anticipated. The people at the FDA are really uptight and condescending, and they tend to throw around words like irresponsible and unthinkable, a great deal more than is necessary.

It’s been a long process, but according to one source from the FDA, all I’m waiting on now is a cold day in Hell.

My product would result in another happy customer, and a tasty appetizer.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

I have also been working on a permanent cure for jock itch. Those results haven’t been quite as promising.

(image source: wpclipart.com)

The Stupid Need not Apply

So you need to find a job, but you interview poorly because of the following problems:

You have poor verbal skills; your speech basically consists of a series of grunts and clicks.

You get nervous in pressure filled situations; you sweat profusely, get dizzy, and blackout as you mumble incoherently about your collection of soap carvings.

You are sloppy and ill-mannered; you think Larry the Cable Guy’s a little too uptight.

You make a bad first impression.

You make a bad second impression.

Your third impression is just dreadful.

Your fourth impression is slightly better than your third.

But the fifth time people meet you they snap and attack you with a claw hammer.

You smell funny: like beets and goat urine.

And finally: you’re remarkably stupid.

So in light of these shortcomings, I’m going to aid you in your quest for employment with some helpful hints to get you through that daunting job interview.

Things you should not wear to a job interview:

  • A belt buckle that reads: The Boss Sucks.
  • Your “I’m too drunk to care” t-shirt.
  • That shirt you own that has a mustard stain shaped like Jiminy Cricket.
  • That shirt you own that has a ketchup stain shaped like Donald Duck.
  • Any shirt, with any stain, shaped like any Disney character.
  • That sombrero you’re so proud of.
  • Your alligator boots. (This applies if you’re interviewing for a job with Peta.)
  • Your lucky pair of pants. They may be lucky, but the hole in the crotch isn’t doing you any favors.
  • Your eye patch. Yes, it makes you look dangerous and cool, but don’t.
  • Your Omar Moreno wig. Yes, it’s hysterical, but don’t.
omar moreno hair

It’s hysterical, but don’t.

Things not to do on a job interview:

  • Turn every innocuous statement into a double entendre by responding with the phrase: that’s what she said.
  • Bring in Leonard, your pet lizard, because you think the interviewer might enjoy seeing how a lizard can devour an entire rat.
  • Bring in Wilbur, your pet wombat, because you think the interviewer might be fascinated by how much a wombat can crap.
  • Bad-mouth your previous employer using phrases such as, weasel-faced penis, rat-fink, or tiny brained flea.
  • Punctuate the tirade about how unfairly your previous employer treated by saying, “of course, I was stealing from the company to finance my crystal meth habit.”
  • Nod toward a picture of your interviewer’s wife, give him a knowing wink and say, “sweet.”
  • Don’t lean into your interviewer, carefully study his face, and then say, “a good plastic surgeon could fix that.”
  • Don’t try to show your interviewer how clever you are by guessing her age and weight.
  • Don’t ask your interviewer if he’s prematurely gray, or just dirt-old.
  • Don’t recommend a good wrinkle cream.
  • Under no circumstance should you ask your interviewer to “smell this.”
  • Don’t do anything the voices in your head tell you to do; they don’t have your best interest in mind.
  • Don’t introduce your interviewer to Phineas, your imaginary friend.
  • Don’t tell your interviewer that Phineas thinks he smells good.
  • Don’t demonstrate your conscientiousness by pointing out that you’re waiting until after the interview to get stoned.

Note: The following is an actual conversation I had with a man who was dropping off his resume at a place where I used to work:

Man: Is there someone here that I can talk to about a job?

Me: The plant manager does the hiring, but he isn’t here today.

Man: So I can’t talk to anyone today?

Me: Sorry.

Man: But I made sure not to get stoned today.

Me: That’s very conscientious of you; I’ll add a note to your resume.

Man: You make sure you do that.

That man wasn’t even considered for a position; does honesty count for nothing anymore?

Things not to put on your resume:

Under other interests:

  • Your plot to overthrow the government and replace it with a puppet regime. And the fact that the puppets are Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street.
  • Discussing your alien abduction, and various alien probing methods.
  • Your collection of shrunken heads.
  • Scrapbooking.
  • Hunting the world’s most dangerous prey: humans.
  • Miming.

Note: hunting mimes and shrinking their heads is acceptable…and if you should happen to scrapbook about it…whatever.

Under accomplishments:

  • Your swift rise to power as president of the Justin Bieber fan club.
  • Finishing at the top of your taxidermy class. (Again, this mostly applies if your interviewing for a job with Peta.)
  • Your fluency in Klingon.
  • Having been a cast member of any television show with the words “the housewives of” in the title.

Final and key piece of advice:

Just don’t be yourself.

bad interview

Don’t do this.

Nutella or Montague: What’s in a Name?

nutella

A delicious snack, but a terrible name for a French child.

According to Ole Bill Shakespeare what you call a thing doesn’t alter its nature; “that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” and all that.

Note: not to give anything away, but regardless of the lovely sentiment, things didn’t end well for Juliet.

It seems a court in Northern France disagrees with the Bard of Avon, and has taken a tough stance toward families who give their children odd names.

When one couple in Valenciennes tried to call their child Nutella, the shocked registrar immediately informed the local prosecutor, who took the case to court in the northern city. (But not before first making himself a quick snack, Nutella really is delicious.)

The judge argued that giving the child the name of a chocolate spread was against the girl’s interests as it might lead to mockery and unpleasant remarks. “Children can horribly cruel to other children who happen to have odd names,” the Honorable Peanut Butter N. Jelly told the court as he wiped a tear of remembrance from his eye. “Besides, her surname is already French, isn’t that bad enough?”

Note: Since my name, Shampoe, is also French, I’m allowed that last part.

The parents did not turn up at the hearing in November, and in their absence the judge ruled that the girl’s name should be shortened from Nutella to Ella. Her full name is now a much more respectable Ella Phant Butt. “Let’s see school children just try to make fun of that,” the court said.

The same court in Valenciennes made similar arguments in January this year before overturning the decision of another couple to name their child Fraise, the French word for strawberry.

The judge said that in particular the girl might face derision from people using the uncouth expression “ramène ta fraise” – a slang saying that translates as “get your a– over here.”

The parents opted instead for Fraisine, an elegant name popular in the 19th century which roughly translates as “get your non-strawberry a– over here.”

“French parents can choose whatever name they want for their offspring,” a registrar said, “but we will occasionally seek to ban or change a moniker that might be deemed against the child’s interests…or if we’re bored, or someone’s just being a real prick about things.”

“I don’t think it’s very funny,” said known prick Jacques Faucheux, father of court renamed Flaccid Penis Faucheux.

A family was told in 2009 that they could not name their child after the French cartoon character Titeuf.

titeuf

French cartoon character Titeuf–forget the name, I want my children to have that hairstyle.

Note: I’ve never been more glad to live in the United States; I fully plan to name my child, Magilla Gorilla Shampoe, and I don’t want the courts messing around with my daughter’s name.

Magilla

The name Magilla Gorilla just oozes class.

But the French courts don’t reserve this right for just human names. A dog owner in eastern France has been forced to change the names of his dogs, Itler and Iva, because they clearly “make people think of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun.”

The unnamed owner argued that the names, Itler and Iva, had nothing to do with Adolph Hitler and Eva Braun. He grudgingly changed his dogs’ names to Iliso and Isio 4, but admitted he probably shouldn’t have shaved the swastikas into their fur.

And finally, in France you cannot call a pig Napoleon, due to a law aimed at preserving the image of the Emperor which remains on the statute books.

For shame George Orwell. For shame.

Animal Farm

Napoleon from George Orwell’s Animal Farm. For shame George Orwell.

 Addendum:

Jacques Faucheux has petitioned the court to have his son’s name (Flaccid Penis Faucheux) changed. He was a real prick about it.

The court granted his petition, and changed his son’s name to My-Fathers-A-Prick Faucheux.

Another petition is pending.

Stingrays and Vinny from Yonkers

Don’t let the happy face fool you; this is a vicious monster.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

Do you remember as a child, adults would bandy about that old saw that a bee would only sting if you provoked? Do you also remember the dissemination of that bit of information generally came moments after being stung by a bee?

I recall an instance in my childhood, sitting in my backyard, quietly playing in a manner that could be readily described as angelic, when a bee decided it had become sufficiently provoked. My youthful playtime came to an abrupt halt with the introduction of searing pain to the side of head.

I went in search of sympathy, only to find an accusatory tone. Unfortunately two of my aunts were visiting.

“What did you do to it?” The first asked in her typically snide voice.

“What did I do to it?” She was obviously confused by the sequence of events.

“You must have provoked it,” the other chimed in, with her less snide, but decidedly more mannish voice.

Note: my aunts’ inability to recognize a child playing in a manner that could be readily described as angelic, likely stems from their own entirely unangelic nature…they’re really bitchy.

Informed by this experience, I watched in amusement as a tour guide on a travel show condescendingly told Vinny from Yonkers, “don’t be alarmed by that stingray brushing against your leg, they only attack when they’re angry or provoked.”

Vinny from Yonkers response was to act alarmed. He then gave the tour guide a look that generally precedes a punch in the face.

Any animal in which the word “sting” is prominent in its name, is probably an animal of which to be wary. It is generally wise to approach anything with the ability to sting, with caution.

Things that sting:

  • Bees.
  • Wasps.
  • Hornets.
  • Platypuses (yes they sting; watch the Discovery Channel sometime).
  • Stinging nettles.
  • Graig Nettles, former gold glove third basemen of the New York Yankees, and his rapier wit.
  • Scorpions.
  • That vicious rejection from the cute girl you asked out. Seriously, she didn’t have to say that thing about your face.
  • Jellyfish.
  • Yellow jackets the type of insect.
  • Buzz the yellow jacket mascot of Georgia Tech. He didn’t have to say that thing about your face either.
  • That slap you received after making an ill-advised comment about your aunt’s mannish voice.
  • Gordon Sumner (Sorry, this is from the “things called sting” list).
  • Stingrays.

Also, how would you go about determining the mental state of a stingray? I’ve never seen one that appeared happy-go-lucky.

It’s probably hard being a big flat fish living on the bottom of the ocean, always afraid that some fat tourist named Vinny will step on your back.

Stingrays have their mouths and nostrils situated on their underbellies; that cannot be a pleasant way to exist.

And have you seen what stingrays look like? They’re all crazy ugly; stingray sex must be just awful.

A stingray’s sting can result in extreme pain, illness, the amputation of affected limbs, and in extreme cases, death.

Note: if you’re a condescending tour guide, they can also cause you to get punched in the face by a guy from Yonkers named Vinny.

Any animal that on a whim can cause my life to end, is by my way of thinking, a source of alarm.

Or is it possible that you could run into a stingray with a sense of humor; a stingray that finds it amusing to sting a condescending tour guide.

Either way, you should be careful before you smugly tell someone not to be alarmed. You could be dealing with a stingray with a sense of humor, or guy named Vinny without one.

stingray

My sex life is just atrocious.

Putting One Thing on Top of Another Thing

blocks,

An example of my capabilities.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

“Do you understand?” He was gaping at me the way someone would who had just tried to explain calculus to an ape. And not one of those clever apes that knows sign language, but one those apes on the nature channel that’s eating its own poop.

“Seriously?” I responded.

“Yeah,” he spat the word at me in the most condescending arrogant voice he could conjure. “Did you understand what I just explained to you?”

Note: in fairness to him, the most condescending arrogant voice he could conjure, turned out to simply be his voice.

Allow me to go back to the beginning and explain: I am referring to an experience I had as a temporary worker. When you’re a temporary worker, there are certain things that are presumed:

  • You possess the education of a 12th century manure mucker, your biggest aspiration is to one day be allowed to use a shovel.
  • You need everything explained to you at least a dozen times.
  • You need everything explained in a tone that one would use when explaining to a small child why he shouldn’t eat all the fingerpaint, and vomit into the fish tank.
  • You need everything explained to you in monosyllabic language. (Ironically, the word monosyllabic is exactly the type of word that should never be used when explaining something to a temporary worker.)
  • You need everything explained to you with accompanying diagrams. These diagrams should be drawn in crayon if possible.
  • All diagrams should be drawn in non-threatening colors such as forest green or navy blue. Bright colors confuse and disorient temporary workers (fuchsia makes us crazy).

I was busy with the important task of opening bottles of juice and dumping the juice into a barrel; there was a problem with the labeling and the juice needed to be re-bottled. (Evidently, even non-peon workers make mistakes.)

Note: I’ve promised not to divulge the name of the famous juice company where this happened. I will not welch on that promise. If I were do that I’d be a welcher. I don’t want to be someone who welchs. Was that last bit subtle enough?

I was interrupted from my duties by Rat-Faced Guy, (not his actual name) who informed me that he needed my assistance.

He dragged me over to a line where juice was being packaged in small cans. As cases of these cans progressed down the line, a machine would lift every other case and then fling the cans into the air, spilling them across the floor. Evidently, that’s not how the machine was designed to operate.

Rat-Faced Guy (probably not his name) explained to me that the malfunctioning machine would be shut down, and I would step in to take its place. As the cases came down the line in pairs, it would be my job to pick up the first case of juice, and place it on top of the second case of juice. Then I would have to do that again and again, until the machine was operating properly again.

It was at point that Rat-Faced Guy (potentially his actual name, when I say Rat-Faced Guy, people seem to know whom I’m referring to) asked me if I understood.

“So, you’re asking me if I understand putting one thing on top of another thing?” I asked him.

“Yeah.” He looked at me with his beady eyes, his wispy mustache twitching nervously.

“What if, instead of putting the first case on top of the second, I put the second case under the first case?” I proposed.

Rat-Faced Guy (probably his actual name) looked at me incredulously. “Why would you do that?”

“I’m a visionary,” I told him. “I’m like Henry Ford, Steve Jobs, or Thomas Crapper.”

“Just do it the way I told you,” squeaked Rat-Faced Guy (almost certainly his actual name).

For the next two hours, I stood in one spot, and successfully put one thing on top of another thing.

Perhaps now they will trust me with something challenging such as putting one thing next to another thing.

The sky’s the limit.

Addendum:

I know what you’re thinking: Thomas Crapper, a visionary? The toilet guy? Yes. Thomas Crapper, the toilet guy, was a visionary. Consider what it was he proposed. Try to imagine the first time he discussed it with his friends:

Thomas Crapper: You know how outhouses are filthy and disgusting places, riddled with rats and snakes.

Friend #1: Horribly dirty things, outhouses.

Thomas Crapper: And you know how we put them a certain distance from our homes because of the stench and the disease and the vermin.

Friend #1: Yes.

Friend #2: Ha, vermin’s a funny word.

Thomas Crapper: I’m thinking about moving that inside the house.

Friend #1: That’s insane.

Thomas Crapper: Maybe put it in a small room near the bedroom.

Friend #1: That’s just crazy talk. Is this because we keep making fun of your name? Because if it is we can stop.

Friend #2: Ha, Crapper is a funny name; I’m not stopping.

Thomas Crapper: We could even put it in the same room that we bathe.

Friend #1: Now you’ve gone off the deep end. Next you’ll be telling us about a machine that will allow men to fly.

Thomas Crapper: Well, there are these two brothers named Wilbur and Orville, and they have an idea.

Friend #2: Ha, Wilbur and Orville, those are funny names.

idiotprufs, rat cartoon

An uncanny likeness to Rat-Faced Guy, and possible outhouse resident.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

A Few Quick Thoughts About Groundhog Day

idiotprufs groundhog day punxsutawny phil

Phil and his throng of his adoring fans.

Groundhog Day

Groundhog Day is a day when thousands of people gather in small town in rural Pennsylvania, to applaud a groundhog as a celebrity and a prognosticator, and to wait with bated breath for that groundhog to notice or not notice his shadow. It is a day of great pomp and circumstance.

The Other 364 days of the year
The other 364 days of the year, a groundhog is a giant rodent, and poking its head from a hole, would be cause for the same rural Pennsylvanians to reach for their 12-gauge.

groundhog phil

Hey, where did the party go?

Top Ten Other Ways the New England Patriots Cheat

football underinflated

Patriots’ game ball, inflated slightly more than Tom Brady likes it.

#10

Robert Kraft offers a lifetime supply of razors to officials who ‘look the other way’ when they cover the Seahawks’ game balls with super slippery stuff.

#9

Rob Gronkowski is actually a cyborg sent back from the future to kill Sarah Conner.

#8

Tom Brady wears a piece; he’s actually bald a cue ball.

#7

They lace other team’s Gatorade with Viagra.

#6

The New England Patriots’ kicker’s balls are coated with flubber.

#5

Legarrette Blount never passes the joint to the other team.

(Technically this isn’t cheating, but it certainly isn’t polite.)

#4

Snipers.

#3

Bill Belichick had a witch doctor put an ‘interception’ curse on Eli Manning, to keep him out of the Super Bowl.

(It’s working.)

#2

They steal the other team’s playbook, and replace the plays with Venn Diagrams about ninjas.

#1

Tom Brady illegally deflates his game balls; he artificially inflates his jock strap.

addendum

When I said the New England Patriots’ kicker’s balls are coated with flubber, I did mean his testicles.

ninja irs When Russell Wilson drops back to pass, he’ll be looking for the zombie.

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